


The Picture of Aster Wright

by iimpavid, voidteatime



Series: unfinished duet [3]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Light Stalking, Other, Peter Nureyev's Alias Catalog, Portraits, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:00:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21975475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iimpavid/pseuds/iimpavid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidteatime/pseuds/voidteatime
Summary: A little light breaking and entering goes a bit sideways.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Hieron, Peter Nureyev/OC
Series: unfinished duet [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564903
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	The Picture of Aster Wright

On the fifth and final ring Ysadora picked up her comms. “ _Speak_.” 

“I need you to get something from my duffle bag.” His voice was fraught. Anxious. It wasn't a sound she heard from him often.

“The one by my suite's door?”

“Yes.” 

“The one you forgot, like a fool, when you left Europa?” 

“ _Yes_.”

“The one you explicitly told me to never go rummaging in or you would divorce me and take the entire Melva estate with you?” 

“Yes, that exact one! Dora, please--” 

There was rustling in the background. The muzzy sounds of Irina asking, “Who the hell is that?” 

Even with the speaker pressed into her shoulder, Dora’s response still sounded irritated, “My fool husband.” 

“Well, hang up on him.”

And then, back into the comms’ receiver, Dora sighed, “Alfred, you know I love you, I do, you are the light of my life. But you are trying my patience. Are you aware of the time on Europa?”

His tone was grave-steady, devoid of endearments and drama that she was so used to hearing. “Two o’clock in the morning. Dora, please, do this for me. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.” 

“Fine, fine, fine. What am I looking for, my foolish, needy husband?” She almost heard him sigh in relief.

“There’s a -- a drawing. It’s in a frame, wrapped in paper, in the middle under the filofax knives but if you get to the spare clothes you’ve gone too far. I need you to send me a picture of it. But... be careful with it. Wrap it back up when you’re done. It’s. It’s fragile.” 

That vulnerability of tone is what stops her from scolding him, telling him that she knows how to handle a picture frame. She snaps a photo of it, the flash bright enough in her dark bedroom to make Irina throw a pillow at her. It thumps against the wall. “You should have it shortly.” 

“Thank you,” his breath catches, like he’s shocked or hurt. 

“This is strange and I never want you to call me at this hour again.” 

“Never,” he agreed, sounding distant.

Dora hung up on him.

* * *

The portrait Peter had been hired to steal was a _Hieron_. He’d taken every job that crossed his metaphorical desk that would let him interact with the Martian artist’s work for years now and while it was regrettable to have a pattern (“regrettable” here meaning something much closer to “idiotically stupid”) he couldn’t bring himself to stop.  He was something of a fan. And lately it gave him the perfect excuse to leave Mars behind and do something _enjoyable_. 

Which is how he came to be standing in a Mercurian gallery staring at an untitled portrait of himself. Or, more accurately, an untitled portrait of _Aster Wright_.

He would recognize it anywhere by the background: Lethe Dolce’s Plutonian residence in its mid-twentieth-century-Earth stylings. The hideous diamondese swan on the end table. (Though he hadn’t _remembered_ it being on the end table when Lethe had convinced him to let them draw him… he’d been rather distracted by the drifting colors every single sound around him gave off. He simply may not have noticed the swan.) His face wasn’t the problem; _that_ he simply would’ve used as good reason to accidentally destroy the painting in transit. Ruin a painting, never pick up another Hieron piece again, and file away this connection as another piece of history that he need not ever consider again. A lost paycheck was nothing compared to his identity. Money was worthless compared to his anonymity. 

But it wasn’t that easy. 

True to form Lethe-- _Hieron--_ had abstracted his features to alarming clarity in thick layers of color. He was unrecognizable beyond a passing resemblance in figure. The scar bisecting his sternum, though, was perfectly clear, made more noticeable for its relative subtlety. They’d painted the bite marks they’d left on him in vivid hues to draw the eye. Anyone who’d had the good fortune of seeing him naked in his adult life would take a second glance at a scar like that turning up in a national gallery.

The message from Ysadora comes through and tells him everything he already knew. 

The sketch he’d stolen from Lethe Dolce-- _Hieron--_ stares up at him, twin to the painting on the wall staring down at him. Of _course_ they’d recreated it from memory. There, in the corner, was even the rough rough outline of the swan.

* * *

The decision to find Hieron’s Hyperion City penthouse was not one made with forethought. It nearly got him mauled by the custom model cyberhunds stalking the halls. He would have to let Cora know the miniaturized EMP mines she'd bought were a solid investment. But a couple of deactivated hounds in the entryway would be cause for panic so he takes the time to drag the skeletal constructs to the plush dog beds in the corner of the living room.

Dog beds. For Hieron's robots. He can’t help being charmed by the detail, never mind the bite wound on his forearm. He’s careful not to bleed on their floor and grateful they keep a first aid kit in their guest bathroom even if it is a bit inconvenient to shove the wrappers of the gauze he uses into his pockets before putting everything back just as it was.

There are shades of the house on Pluto in Hieron's penthouse. Old Earth stylings, soft fabrics, plenty of plants. The diamondese swan has pride of place on the coffee table. He traces a gloved finger along the graceful curve of its neck, remembering fondly Lethe’s horrified delight at its objective ugliness— they’d lit up the room. He’d had no choice but to steal it for them. 

The sound of a door unlocking jolts him out of his reverie. He bolts, whisper quiet, for the balcony and shuts it behind himself the second the living room light flicks on behind him.

* * *

Peter sits in the hotel room he's picked up for this venture and stews in aggravation that he sold Aster's coat. It's not quite cold enough on Mars this time of year to warrant it but it would be an easy marker of character. Something Hieron might read as familiar before seeing his face, something that might make it easier to get around the paparazzi that trailed after them like moths. There are ways to deal with cameras directly although they conjure up bad memories: namely half the winged mandala of Maja drawn in silvery ink over one eye and the side of his jaw. He hoped that, if the god did exist, she might lend him her powers of illusion.

Engineering a run in with the Hieron on Mars was... not as straightforward as running into them by accident on Pluto had been. But some of the lines felt the same. Constructing just enough of Aster to make small talk about promethium mining ventures (his trade was in precious metals). Counterfeiting an invitation to a benefit at the Arcade Bizarre. With an invitation code stolen from another attendee's account and rewritten he just manages to catch wind of the drama that ensues when the original owner arrives.

Unlike Pluto, he blends in with the crowd. He might even be under-dressed in geometrically patterned black and silver-- although the sacrum-deep cowl back of his gown is strung with delicate drops of fire opal. An expense unnoticeable until he walks away.

Aster circulates. Sips the free champagne and avoids the hors d'oeuvres despite the fact that these things always make him hungry. Bores a few people to tears with updates on promethium stocks to build out something like recognition should he need to crash a party on Mars in the future. He spots Hieron while he's fingering the purse clasp of an unfortunate woman stood beside him and has to content himself with stealing a brooch from her lapel instead as he makes his polite excuses to flee. He doesn't want to lose them. 

He considers tapping their shoulder. It's obnoxious. It’s rude. It’s not the sort of thing Aster would prefer to do. He does it anyway. "Excuse me, Hieron? I'm sure you get this all the time, but ... do you happen to recall the name Aster Wright?"

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something because there's an awful lot of history to fill in between Pluto and Nauri-Prime, most of it taking place on Mars. There's definitely more to come, for anyone following the series, and be advised: the little bits of worldbuilding for Brahma that y'all've seen so far are only just the tip of the iceberg.


End file.
